To Absent Friends
by TheWeasleyBoys
Summary: On a fateful night in the late summer of 1944, the past and the future would suddenly collide...and in the most unpleasant way imaginable.
1. Crawfish

_Oh my friends, my friends forgive me_

_That I live and you are gone._

_There's a grief that can't be spoken._

_There's a pain goes on and on..._

_**-Les Miserables-**_

_But each time I tell myself that I, well I can't stand the pain,_

_But when you hold me in your arms, I'll sing it once again. _

"_**Piece Of My Heart", Janis Joplin**_

**Chapter One: Crawfish**

While the roads might have been devoid of other cars and no speed limits had yet been established, that didn't stop the lone driver from getting the hell out of that neighborhood as fast as the gas pedal would take him. Five bleeding corpses had been his only prize after breaking into the wrong house, and if he hadn't thought to get down and slip his way back through the cracked door, he would definitely have been Dead Body No. 6. As luck would have it, though—or madness, or fate, or some other unseen force without a name—he'd made it out of there with nothing but a bullet hole through the arm.

He might not have had any medical knowledge to his name, but at least he'd remembered to plug up the holes and add a thick bandage or two for later. Somewhere between one city limit and another (he didn't bother checking the names, that would have been too much of a distraction), the sharp pain coming from just above his left elbow finally started to fade.

About time, too, because he had a lot of driving ahead of him...and as it had often meant for him in the past, a lot of driving meant a lot of thinking.

Just _who_ the fuck was that crazy man?

_Where_ on earth had he managed to find that German rifle?

_How_ had he turned the tables on the gang so quickly, and ambushed them all before they could even blink?

Just _when_ had he learned to kill so many people in so short of a time?

Most of all, though..._why_ had his voice and killing style seemed so familiar? Had he been with that Lieutenant that the driver himself had spoken to only three months beforehand? Couldn't have been. He'd only heard of five others associated with that infamous rogue, and with four of them long proclaimed dead while the fifth had already been named and described, there couldn't possibly be any others hiding in the woodwork someplace. Not when there was no such thing as horrific curses or monstrous immortality in real life. Not when the monsters only existed in movies, and not under your bed or hiding in the closet. Not when the dead stayed dead, unless...

"...No fuckin' way."

There was no such thing as ghosts, either...or restless souls, or reanimated corpses, or whatever bogeyman threatened to take over his imagination in the middle of the night. Whoever or whatever he thought he'd gone up against an hour ago, it _wasn't_ one of Raine's boys. After all, with most of them dead and in the ground or nothing but ashes, there was no chance in hell or heaven that one of them might actually come back, right...?

One minute later, when the highway stretched out before him and his mental fog started to clear, he wasted no time in turning that car as far northwest as he could possibly get. Crazy surprise attacker or not, the driver had just been given a harsh glimpse of the future...and if he hoped to survive it, even if just by a thread, he would have to learn how to kill just as ruthlessly.


	2. Doppelgänger

**Chapter Two: Doppelgänger**

The grandfather clock struck nine on Monday morning, yet the new bride saw no reason to leave the house. The war was more than over and done with, so of course, there would be no need to return to the parachute factory.

Moreover, her friends had been present at the ceremony the week before, so she knew they could easily catch up with each other later on.

Even shopping wasn't exactly a priority, considering her mother-in-law had conveniently assumed that responsibility twenty minutes ago. She might not be back until two hours from now, if all went according to plan. And with Hanna and Samuel off at school and her father-in-law away at the shop, the newlyweds would have the whole house to themselves, even for just a short while.

Other than the songs of the birds from the outside and the drone of the radio somewhere downstairs, everything else about the indoors remained quiet and peaceful. As for Sara, the former Miss Bauer and the newest Mrs. Hirschberg, she believed that a little solitude would be exactly what they both needed. She had made her own plans for these next two hours, and with Gerold waiting obliviously in the sitting room below, _now_ would be the best time to get started.

First came checking the guest room over with a careful eye, since Mama had told her about a month ago that it was the quietest room in the house. Once the shelves had been dusted, the covers smoothed out, the pillows fluffed, a few candles lit, and finally, the curtains drawn, it was time to do a little work on herself as well.

Her heart beat faster as she studied herself in the mirror, terrified that perhaps he might decide to refuse her attention or worse, announce that he was leaving their marriage to go live with a different woman. Her fears weren't entirely unfounded in this regard, for this area had seen its fair share of broken hearts. Just last week, Mr. Banning from three blocks away had made up his mind to leave his wife of fifteen years for a nurse about half her age. Even though the women of _her_ neighborhood had been taught long ago not to speak of such matters, no doubt all the Gentile ladies would be talking about it for some time yet, at least until the next bit of gossip came along. In fact, any couple around her could be the next one to face an unexpected separation, and at any point in the relationship, no less. Old-timers...young parents..._newlyweds_...

"That's _enough_, Sara."

She forced herself out of her own anguish before it could get the better of her. This was no time to worry about something that hadn't happened yet, if indeed it would come to pass at all. And anyways, hadn't Gerold been quiet and respectful through every step of the wedding preparations? If there had been a time to voice his protests, before the ceremony actually took place would have been the right moment to do it. Instead, he had remained by her side from the _kabbalat panim_ to the Grace after Meals, and because of this, she had a feeling he wouldn't walk out on her that quickly.

And so, rather than work herself into a panic over things unseen, she would concentrate on the here and now.

'Now' meant slipping out of her plain-looking nightgown and into one made entirely of black lace, something she'd saved up for during the six months preceding Gerold's return. With any luck, _he'd_ end up loving it as much as she had the moment she caught a glimpse of it in the shop window.

'Now' also meant gently washing her face and hands; then running a brush through her dark hair until she could see it glistening in the sunlight. All the better for those coming moments when his fingers made contact with them, and not any rags or bristles.

By the time she'd found her powder puff to complete the finishing touches, however, a feeling stronger than passion and much worse than worry threatened to paralyze her efforts.

Ever since she'd seen Gerold step off of the Queen Mary, she had the feeling that something was no longer quite right about him. For one, he'd given dirty looks to the non-Jewish families that had managed to escape Germany before the _monster's_ 'election', and at one point, she almost swore she saw him fingering some invisible weapon he might have once carried in his belt, but no longer possessed.

Another troublesome aspect was the way he shouted while he slept, things like "Hold that motherfucker _still_!" or "S'matter, can't stand the _sight_ of blood?!"

Third was that strange Southern accent that managed to creep in while he spoke, which up until just recently had been equal to any other person that had grown up in New England.

And last, but also most importantly, there was that damned old journal.

Filling out its pages was the only real thing Gerold seemed to _want_ to do, and unfortunately, he also seemed to want this one thing much more than he wished to go to the movie theater, to the dance hall, hell, even to any place outside of the house. He had a nasty habit of sitting down in front of the radio, half-listening to whatever program happened to be playing at the time, and just writing, writing, _writing_ almost all day long until his hands finally cramped up and he forced himself to quit for the night.

Out of all the things he could have done, why did it have to be making journal entries?

In the past, writing had been something he did only in school, and rarely did it outside of class unless someone else asked him to. He hadn't really gone past anything besides letters to Hartford during the war, either, because it was the only method he had to know what was happening back home.

Back under his own roof, though...it was nothing but writing. Writing in that journal and writing letters out of town, and G-d only knew what _else_ he did in between. Could things between them secretly have changed? Were all these letters meant for a different woman, even after he had willingly stood beside her before the rabbi and made that unbreakable promise? Was she even strong enough to try finding out the truth from Gerold himself?

Perhaps she would have to be. Perhaps the direct way would also be the only way she could get him to be honest with her...and if there was no need, no true reason to suspect any hidden liaisons, then she could let go of it and go on to be direct with something more..._important_.

Sara could barely keep herself from blushing at the thought of it, because there were so very few things in life that could be considered both a risk and a reward. From what she had heard from both her mother as she grew up and from her mother-in-law after she stopped growing, she would have to first feel pain before she could understand pleasure. Not merely the quick shock associated with a pinprick, but something that would last a lot longer and feel a lot worse. Women before her had whimpered, cried, and sometimes even _screamed_ from the sting of it. With no idea of what might happen by the time these two hours had passed by, a part of her wanted nothing more than to feel no pain whatsoever after she and her husband had given free rein to their passions.

There would, no doubt, be more to it afterward, though. All of the happy marriages she knew about wouldn't have lasted so long if pain was the only outcome, now, would they? A part of her might have been afraid of the pain, but the rest of her mind as well as her heart wanted to _learn_, wanted to experience _all_ of the possibilities in whatever amount of time she would have upon this earth. All she would have to do now was take one last breath of air before the plunge, and manage to stay strong no matter what the final result might be.

When she turned the corner that led to the living room, however, any confidence she'd worked up before almost escaped her. The 'damned journal', as she'd previously labeled it, was out of Gerold's hands and on the far side of the couch along with his usual writing pen. It wouldn't curse her with any competition for her husband's attention, that much was true. Unfortunately, it was also true that he sat hunched over with both hands hiding his face, looking to be on the verge of tears. The last time Sara had seen him like that, he had barely survived a suicide attempt over the murders of his relatives overseas. Even though three years of healing had taken place, the sight of him in pain all over again didn't fail to make her hurt just as much as she had back then.

"Gerry...?"

The only answer she received sounded like a mix between a groan and a sob. She couldn't turn and run away now, _oh no_. Not just yet. Not when they had both come too far to call it quits.

"Gerold, it's okay. You can talk to me."

He made no sound of reply, but she could still tell that he'd been listening. The way he slowly lowered his hands from his face was proof enough for her.

"You don't have to hold it in any more. You know that, right...?"

She drew closer as she spoke, one cautious step at a time, until finally she had drawn near enough to place a hand upon his shoulder. Not only was this enough to make him turn around and look her straight in the eye, but also more than enough to lead him back into her arms. He had gone there willingly, easily, long before any fears or doubts had the chance to hold him back.

"_Oh_. Oh, _dear_..."

Instinctively, she allowed herself to stay right there on the couch beside him, as it would be nothing short of foolish to try and suggest that they go anywhere else. There would be more than enough time ahead of them to focus on this. In the meantime, she would go well out of her way to listen, to speak, and above all else, try to comfort him by any means necessary.


	3. Entry No 75

**Chapter Three: Entry No. 75**

_August 30, 1944_

_It's been two months since I walked off of that ship, but I still don't feel like I'm back at home. Not since I walked out the door as myself, only to come back two years later as someone else entirely. Not since a part of me got lost out there in the wild, and never really managed to find its way back. Not since I went nuts._

_Oh, the family's tried to keep me in the loop, all right. They sure as hell would never forget about me or leave me behind, G-d love 'em. They were there to help me get through all the stresses of my own wedding, and they'll most likely help me deal with everything that comes afterward._

_The trouble is, I know that all these other Hirschbergs are just one-half of the whole package deal. The other half got left behind at the harbor, and even that got sliced down the middle somewhere. I can write to these five merry marauders all I want, but it won't do jack shit for my conscience. Not when I know there are two bodies forced to rot under a heap of dirt they're not familiar with. Not when I'm sure what's left of the last two wouldn't be enough to fill a shoebox._

_I wish Rivka was here right now. Rivka would know what to do. _

_Rivka was murdered three years ago. _

_Fuck._

_FUCK._

_Fuck 'em all, and fuck me, too._

_I wish I could go to sleep tonight and wake up the next morning without any memories of Rivka or the Basterds at all._

_I wish this stupid buzzing feeling in my brain would go away and never come back._

_I wish I could trade half of my pain and depression to G-d for the lives of our Missing Four._

_I can't, though. I can't do any of these things any more than I can make time stand still, or go backwards, or even try to keep the rain from falling._

_I hate feeling helpless._


End file.
